


Outside Your Picture Window

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: come in from the cold [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, HTP adjacent, Identity, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Trauma, a helpful manual for beginners!, how to become Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: Deceased, according to the news. Deceased, meaning:dead. Deceased, meaning: someone else had got to him first.





	Outside Your Picture Window

**Author's Note:**

> You do not have to read the other parts of this series first, but this fic probably won't make much sense if you don't. Title from [Spite](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43387/spite) by Stephen Dobyns.
> 
> This isn't particularly horrible by my standards, or at least compared to some of the other stuff I've written, but it is kind of gory and gross, so take that under advisement. Content warning for vomiting.

Today, I hang myself  
from a greased flagpole  
outside your picture window.  
Yesterday, I stole your curtains.

//

“Вытащи меня отсюда,” the ghost said.

He woke up with a gasp, the knife already in his right hand.

The metal fingers were caught against his lower lip, like he could have reached into his own throat and pulled out the ghost. Thrown it into the river where he had left the Captain. Dug down deep and buried it where no one would ever, ever be able to find it and dig it up again.

He was not going back to the vault. He was not—

He did not have to go back to the vault if he did not want to.

Slowly, he removed the metal fingers from the face. The servo motors in the joints had started sticking again, protesting every time he moved. Click. Click. Whir. He flexed each of the fingers of his left hand in turn. Click. Click. Possibly the water had been to blame. He had held onto the Captain with the metal hand, and used the other to claw his way back towards the surface. Damage: necessitating recalibration. A faulty machine. When the Asset had sustained considerable enough damage to be dysfunctional, mission protocol would require a return to the—

Back to the—

No.

He was not going back to the vault.

He was not fucking going back to the vault. He was _not_.

The Captain had been almost insultingly easy to track. He and his companion had been traipsing their way through the Brazilian landscape without even once stopping to consider that they might have been being followed. Jesus. They were lucky it had only been _him_ following them. He had taken care of all the others.

And at least the Widow would not be a threat.

Probably. He didn’t know for sure. Not to the Captain, at least. She liked him. As much as she was capable of _liking_ things.

He knew how it went. Cat liked mouse. Hawk liked mouse. Snake liked mouse. Mouse still got fucking eaten.

He was not going to go back to the vault. He might not have been able to get the ghost out of his head so far, but he could sure fucking ignore it till kingdom come. He could turn off the part of his brain that the ghost liked to hang out in, and the ghost would blink out of view like it had never been there at all. Like a nauseating swamp-green electric pair of glasses on a computer screen. The doctor. The scientists whose faces he could not fucking make himself remember. Probably he was going crazy.

That thought made him laugh. _Going_ crazy, hahahahahaha, as if there would be anywhere further to _go_. He was past the God-fucking-damn line of _crazy_.

The ghost always wanted to stick its slimy hand down his throat and rip out something pink and glistening from inside him. Pull the metal straight out from the flesh and damn the consequences. Fuck him if he was going to do all its work for it. Let the ghost disembowel him by its own fucking self.

At least the Captain had found the wings. Took him long enough. So maybe he hadn’t stuck a fucking holiday bow on the box when he left it for them to find. So what. The Captain had _eyes_. The Widow had told him to go to Brasil. He should have used his _brain_.

Stupid.

He was not going to go back to the vault.

Ah, the vault.

And Sasha, of course.

He didn’t have to be anywhere until fuck knows when, so he sat with his back against a dead tree and thought about Sasha. Alexander Goodwin Pierce, apparently. Deceased, according to the news. Deceased, meaning: _dead_. Deceased, meaning: someone else had got to him first. A shame. He’d have liked to shoot the bastard probably. Maybe get a pair of pliers and a blowtorch and go to town.

But no: he didn’t do that anymore. He wasn’t going to do that anymore. He was _not going to fucking do that anymore_.

Captain America wanted Bucky Barnes. He was going to be Bucky Barnes or die trying.

His head was still hurting like a motherfucker. That’s what you got for turning off the ghost, hahaha, see how you fucking like it now.

Goddamn brain parasite. Just fucking eat his organs already and get it over with.

_Stupid_. He was not going back to the fucking vault.

Sasha had taken him in after the fall of the Soviets, moved him to DC like a proper little politician, stuffed him in a bank vault like a fucking Gzhel porcelain. Expensive and Russian and breakable. He’d already been more glitch than feature by the time the wall went down anyway, for all they’d tried to reboot him. The Widow had been there, and then she hadn’t. The politburo had been there, and then it hadn’t. The leash had gone from Volkov to Petrovich to Lukin to Sokolova to Karpov to... well, Sasha. Good dog bad dog stay roll over sit. Play motherfucking dead.

His brain said ОТЧЕТ. ОТЧЕТ МИССИИ.

Yeah. Mission fucking report.

“Пиздец,” he said. His voice was rusty. Hahahaha. Metal arm. His tongue felt like a piece of rubber in his mouth, and he almost gagged at the foul taste. “Я жду приказаний.”

His brain didn’t have anything helpful to add. Typical.

He thunked the metal hand against the side of his skull. The ghost didn’t get knocked loose, thank fuck.

The body would require food and water and probably more rest so it could recover from the latest tangles with Sanovich and Bulgakov, unfortunately. For two guys old enough to be in nursing homes, they definitely hadn’t forgotten how to aim a gun and pull a trigger.

He allowed himself a moment to luxuriate in the irony. He might have been old enough to be in the goddamn nursing home anyway. Or the loony bin. The ghost twitched curiously when he thought about _that_, so he erased it. He had a _plan_ for today and the ghost was not involved. At least not yet.

He should probably have talked to the Widow.

Well. Talked to her like a person. They’d been communicating in the language of skull-fucked Soviet experiments: I didn’t kill a group of wet work specialists in Omsk. You cut the throat of an old handler with a garrotte wire and left the head in the kitchen sink in Montauk. I blew up an old base of operations in Arkhangelsk. You put C4 in the base of a water tower in Nordrach. Super soaker calling card. Puzzle pieces scattered all around the fucking globe. Oh, they’d been talking, all right. Just not in a language most people would have understood.

She knew he had been helping, that much was for sure. She wouldn’t have missed the incident with the wings. The question was. Why hadn’t she _said something_ about it.

It was infuriating. She didn’t make _sense_.

Actually, it was almost poetic, in some fucking way. After all those years, she was still the same fucking kid from the dacha, the little spider with the Cheburashka ears, brimming over with satisfaction when she'd managed to pull off a particularly difficult trick.

ОТЧЕТ МИССИИ, his brain chipped in, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, I got it, fucking mission report, shut the fuck off already,” he muttered. At least the ghost was staying quiet for now. Not that he could stop himself from _thinking_ about it.

The actual mission report didn’t take long. His head felt like it had been dropped into the Elephant’s Foot, then thrown into a centrifuge, then the remaining mess had been plopped into a blender and taken for a whirl. He only threw up twice though in the process, so that was progress in of itself. At least he’d managed to go from _someone pounding his skull with a jackhammer_ to _someone hacking at his cranium with a chisel_ in only six months. That was real improvement. He’d be a God damn motherfucking medical miracle if he could stand to let anyone touch him without ripping their throat out with the metal fingers.

Okay. New objective. Turn into Bucky Barnes. Try not to cause any damage during the encounter that would bring any international intelligence agents into the clusterfuck.

Should have been a piece of cake. Easy as pie. Apples to fucking apples.

Also. The body would definitely require food. And probably a change of clothes. The inside of his right knee had started bleeding again overnight, and he was running out of clean bandages. It would have been easier if he could just stay _put_ to let the damn thing heal, but the Captain and his companion were apparently determined to go caroming all over the world. And it wasn’t not like he could break into HYDRA's trust funds without bringing down the wrath of—well, fire and Fury, that’s for sure. Hahahaha. As though anything with the Captain had even been _easy_.

He was not going back into the vault.

Fucking _got it_ already.

The thing formerly known as the Winter Soldier picked itself up and started making a path towards the nearest signs of human civilization.

//

When people ask about you,  
I shake my head. When they  
tell about you, I nod.

//

It was surprisingly easy to become Bucky Barnes. The body remembered. There was an overabundance of information available. The thing formerly known as the Winter Soldier had been sent on successful deep cover missions before with less information than could be found in the museum alone. It knew how to _become someone_.

Bucky Barnes was the first of his mother's line to be born West of Ellis Island. Bucky Barnes grew up in Brooklyn Heights. Bucky Barnes had a mother (_warm hands shlissel challah flour print skirt_) and a father. One sister: Rebekah. Rivka, Rivkele. Rebecca, the museum said. There were books written about him. Bucky Barnes was the talk of the town, Bucky Barnes was a bit of a skirt-chaser, Bucky Barnes was a real cool cat. Bucky Barnes was born in 1917 and died in 1945. Bucky Barnes was a soldier, Sergeant First Class. He'd been drafted, and served for three years before his death.

Bucky Barnes had been a soldier. Bucky Barnes had been deployed to Guadalcanal, then shipped over to the Italian Campaign as cannon fodder. Bucky Barnes had served on the front lines. Bucky Barnes had died in service to his country.

He had screamed, when he'd died. It had hurt like all hell.

Bucky Barnes had a steady hand and a good eye. Bucky Barnes was quick with a smile but slow to trust. Bucky Barnes was good with children, loved animals, went out dancing whenever he could. Bucky Barnes was a bit of a rabble-rouser and trouble-seeker, but nothing too serious. He'd never got a girl in trouble or been a bad kid. Bucky Barnes was a gem, a peach, a doll. The charm of a nation.

Captain America wanted Bucky Barnes. The body could make that happen. Bucky Barnes would follow Captain America to hell and back. Bucky Barnes had been the sidekick, the mascot, the boy in blue. Captain America's dog.

Well, the dog fucking came home.

He staked out the Captain's former DC apartment for three weeks before deciding that it was empty for good. The newspapers had headlines screaming about how CAPTAIN AMERICA MOVES BACK TO BROOKLYN, so he walked. It took an unexpected length of time.

Food was necessary. He stole from street vendors, dumpsters behind buildings, hidden itinerant stashes. He found knives, and pocketed them. He found money, cash, and used it to buy a hat and jacket. With nondescript clothes and a month's worth of facial hair, he was invisible. People politely turned up their noses. No one wanted to look at him. No one wanted to fucking smell him either. He considered stripping down to bathe in one of the rivers, but the chance of losing his collection was too high. He stole newspapers from their plastic boxes. He stole a season bus pass from a man with a loose wallet and traded it for a scarf. He walked to Vinegar Hill.

The Captain wanted Bucky Barnes. He could make that happen.

He could look at his reflection and make it smile. Lips, teeth, tongue. He stuck the tongue against the front teeth and tried to smile like Bucky Barnes would. "Hiya, Steve," he said.

Captain America wanted Bucky Barnes. But Bucky Barnes had died in 1945. "Hey, Steve," he made the mouth say. He stuck his fingers into his mouth and pulled the lips and cheeks around, trying to figure out the smile. He'd stolen a book from the library with Bucky Barnes's face on the cover, and he made his face copy that picture. Hiya, Steve. Hey, Steve. How's it been going, Steve. What's new, Steve. Steve. Steve. Steve.

Bucky Barnes was right-handed. Bucky Barnes knew how to handle a gun. Bucky Barnes had been a prisoner of war. He decided that Bucky Barnes probably would be one fucked-up piece of meat and bone, and allowed the accent to slip. Hiya, Steve. Hey, Steve. He stole a razor blade from a man living under a bridge in Red Hook and used it to cut his hair down to an acceptable wartime length. He looked at his reflection and made the face do what he wanted it to do. He could make the body obey him. Hey, Steve. Sorry it's been so long. Hey Steve. Hey Steve.

Bucky Barnes spoke English, Yiddish, and a bit of German. Bucky Barnes had been a soldier. He stuck the knives in his boot. He started walking like he'd seen war. With the haircut, the face looked passable. The body had lost enough weight that it was probably close enough to a soldier's muscle mass. Lean and starving. Bucky Barnes had been a welterweight champ, popular in school, successful. It had been a right proper tragedy when he'd died.

"Hi, Steve," he said. He practiced saying it until it felt familiar. Hi Steve. Hi Steve. How's it going, Steve. What's crackin', Steve.

Brooklyn was nothing like Bucky Barnes would have remembered it, which made things easier. He could feign confusion. He could be tired and overwhelmed with the modern world. Sorry, Steve. Sorry. I didn't mean it. Sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't make me—

He had not heard from or seen anything about the Widow in over two months, not since she'd blown up the old base in Arkhangelsk, which was why he was surprised when he turned around and she landed on him from behind, wrapping that fucking wire around his throat and sending him stumbling.

"Fuck!" he choked, and dropped to the ground, pulling her down with him.

She flipped over his head and rolled easily, coming up empty-handed: the wire was still wrapped loosely around his throat, caught in the scarf. Nice fucking trick. She froze, hands extended. Her eyes were cautious and bright. Her red hair was tucked up underneath a knit hat. Somehow it had become early Spring without his noticing. Somewhere along the line.

"I don't want a fight," the Black Widow said.

"Like hell," he said, and blocked her next viper-swift strike with the metal arm. She didn't even flinch when the metal connected.

Bucky Barnes was right-handed. Bucky Barnes wouldn't be—

"I don't want a fight," the Widow said. She darted out of range, quick as a cat. "I'm trying to help Steve."

"Fuck you," he said, and tried to hit her again. She ducked.

"Stop," she said, "behaving like a—"

He said: _бычить_, and—

"Это пиздец," he said. But he couldn't—

Couldn't.

Bucky Barnes didn't speak Russian. Bucky Barnes spoke English, Yiddish, and a bit of German.

"Fuck," he said, then said it again, louder: "Fuck!"

He staggered back, away from her, then turned and vomited into the ditch. It was mostly bile. He hadn't been able to keep down anything solid. The arm whirred, loud and angry. Click. Click. He spat, shivering violently. Wiped his mouth on the sleeve. It was already filthy anyway. The stench kept people away.

The Widow was watching him. He could feel her sharp eyes digging into his back.

"I'm trying to help Steve," she said. "Steve wants you, so I came to find you."

"Wants," he said, and thunked the heel of his left palm against his skull. "Person."

"You're the closest thing to Bucky Barnes still living," the Widow said. "This is about all that's left."

Bucky Barnes had a best friend. Bucky Barnes stuck up for that one kid. The body remembered.

He was shaking all over. He swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth, then a moment later vomited again anyway. Nothing much came up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something that wasn't stolen street food or half-rotten garbage.

"If he knew where you were, he'd already be here," said the Widow. "I didn't tell him I knew about you, or that you were helping, but I think he figured it out eventually."

Help Steve. What had been the fucking name of the other guy. Wings. The wings. Wilson. Sam. Sam Wilson. Birdman.

The Widow was still talking.

Couldn't she ever fucking shut up. His head felt like a fucking stress ball.

"Steve wants to help you," she said. "I'm inclined to believe you need the help."

"Wants," he said, then paused to throw up again. Dry-heaving made his throat feel scraped raw. Sandpaper. Blood on the inside. The arm hummed furiously. Click. Click. Click. And the fourth like a son of God. Time for a system reset. Time for a—

Time for—

No.

_Fuck_.

"He wants. Him," he managed.

The Widow didn't look impressed.

He yanked the fucking wire from around his neck and hurled it into the ditch. The Widow wrinkled her nose. Sour that her favourite toy was gone, probably. Fucking infant. How old even was she. The kid from the dacha with the Cheburashka ears.

Bucky Barnes had been a soldier. Bucky Barnes had been carted off to Guadalcanal to fight the motherfucking Japanese. Bucky Barnes had died in action. In service. In memoriam. In love. Bucky Barnes was burned up into nothing.

The body remembered.

"Steve wants you, no matter how," the Widow said. "It hurts, doesn't it? Trying to become a person."

"Shut up," he said. "Shut the fuck—_up_."

"You could go back to him, or I could take care of you right here," she said.

"Fuck off!"

"Those are your options."

He breathed through his nose. In. Out. Fucking loony bin. Click. Click. Click. Someone had grabbed his head and crushed it like a soda can.

"Fine," he snarled. "You. Teach me."

The Black Widow smiled at him.

//

I steal your mailbox, leave  
gum on your sidewalk. I  
seduce your sister, ignore your wife.  
I tear one page from each of your books.

//

Captain America wanted Bucky Barnes. And so the thing formerly known as the Winter Soldier, currently aliased as Bucky Barnes, freshly shaven and wearing new clothes, knocked on the Captain's door at 10:30 in the morning and waited.

It took Captain America an unreasonably long time to open the door.

He waited, trying not to fidget. Bucky Barnes might have fidgeted. Bucky Barnes had known the feel of a gun. He'd been a sniper, during the war.

He decided that probably Bucky Barnes would have known how to be still. He felt naked without his knives; the Widow had taken them. She'd arranged for a change of clothes. She'd even produced a toothbrush. She'd squatted next to him while he brushed his teeth and spat into the filthy stinking river.

Footsteps. The arm hummed, nervous. Agitated. But the ghost was sleeping. Like the dead. Hahahaha.

Bucky Barnes wasn't the ghost. The ghost wasn't something that had even been alive. The ghost was something slimy and rotten, curdling inside him. Chewing on his stomach.

The Widow had been helpful.

Hey, Steve. He could turn himself into a thing that Steve could make use of. It would be easy. Hey there, Steve. I missed you, Steve. Missed you so bad. I'll love you until you dispose of me.

Bucky Barnes spoke English, Yiddish, and a bit of German. Bucky Barnes would have followed the Captain to hell and back. Bucky Barnes had, in fact, done so.

Bucky Barnes had been a living breathing human person, right up until the day he'd died. It was a little miracle, having a body. He could eat, and breathe, and digest food, and respond to pain. He was a real mechanical chemical man.

He had returned the library book. Bucky Barnes's face had gone back on the shelf. It was his now, to wear. He could do whatever he wanted with it. Bucky Barnes couldn't do a damn thing to stop him.

The door opened.

The Captain's scrubbed-pink face appeared in the gap, looking like it was meshed somewhere awe-struck and horrified. "Bucky?"

He was going to be Bucky Barnes or die trying.

"Hiya, Steve," he heard himself say. "It's been a long time, huh?"

//

I convince you that I am your friend.

**Author's Note:**

> The "real mechanical chemical man" is a reference to [a rather disturbing but fascinating automaton from the 1939 World's Fair](http://exhibitions.nypl.org/biblion/worldsfair/enter-world-tomorrow-futurama-and-beyond/essay/essay-jenkins-gadgets-qa); it could, apparently, [do all the things listed](http://exhibitions.nypl.org/biblion/worldsfair/image/3jenkins1). "The fourth like a son of God" refers to the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the Book of Daniel. Cheburashka is a Russian cartoon character that looks sort of like a monkey and sort of like a mouse—the point is that it has big ears. "The body remembered" is, to be honest, a Sleater-Kinney reference.


End file.
